The Liar, the Witch and the Wager
by Infusiion
Summary: Maybe he was content with losing. Just this once. 7th year AU.


Draco was sipping pumpkin juice and staring intently at a rogue rain cloud hovering in the otherwise clear Great Hall ceiling when a bag threw itself on the bench next to him, followed closely by one, two, three, four bodies. A crinkle appeared between his eyebrows, and he suddenly decided that this morning's ceiling was actually rather perfect.

"What?" He sighed, already bored. With some effort, he convinced his head to swivel from the enchanted sky to the faces of his Slytherin peers, whose expressions ranged from determined and annoyed, to the glazed blankness of those who'd engaged autopilot a long time ago.

"Crabbe, Goyle." Draco nodded to each of them, not bothering to hide his smirk. The impatient faces of Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson came into focus in front of his ex-goons, and with a barely concealed eye roll, Draco gave them his full attention. Mostly.

For example, Zabini was now speaking in what he thought was his intimidating-yet-eloquent tone, and while Draco was pretty sure he was listening, he also noticed how Parkinson was looking a little lost. He was certain that, now that Zabini had his back to her, her sex-induced loyalty to him was warring with her neurotic obsession with Draco – otherwise known as 'the one she'd sexed multiple times but cocked up her chances with by constantly fawning over him in disgusting baby voices and cataloguing of all his inheritances'. He thought it was a rather becoming look on her, if one were inclined toward those a few sickles short of the galleon.

"Malfoy! Are you even listening?" Zabini demanded, his dark cheeks darkening further in his frustration.

"Not really. Is it something important?" Draco made a show of looking deeply concerned, complete with the inquisitive brow and wide, apologetic eyes. He was nothing if not thorough.

Crabbe and Goyle nodded earnestly, Pansy continued staring at him, and Zabini glared at him hotly.

"The four of us – you remember, your friends? – are becoming rather concerned about your wellbeing," he spat, the (somewhat) kind gesture in his words destroyed by the ugly sneer that never failed to befoul his otherwise handsome features.

Draco was unconcerned. Since sixth year he had started growing unimpressed with his former group of friends, and he had steadily begun to devote more time to his studies – which meant, as a Slytherin, he was alone more often than not.

But that didn't faze him. He may have disowned his entire family, save his mother, but he still embraced certain Malfoy traits that worked to his advantage – namely, the knack for self-preservation, the sharp mind (though he was most likely the first to use it for academic purposes rather than villainous ones), and the powerful aura that pulsed around him like magic itself, and meant people feared, and in rare cases respected, him whether he was accompanied by a gaggle of Slytherins or his book bag.

He suspected his (almost) complete turnaround since fifth year and the aforementioned traits were responsible for the prestigious role of Head Boy being assigned to him in this, their seventh year. Sure, there were a handful of students who would have been fine candidates, but none could have matched Draco's steadfast hold over the younger, more rebellious students. Many argued that his wasn't the sort of influence a Head Boy (supposedly the epitome of intelligence, commitment, integrity and fairness) should have over Hogwarts' students, but the protests fell on deaf ears. Sometimes, when he was contemplating such things, he wondered if Dumbledore knew him better than he knew himself.

And of course, he would be a fool to overlook the fact that a Slytherin and Gryffindor partnership would be the simplest, most effective means of encouraging house unity in these tumultuous times. And he had to admit, despite her previous knack for infuriating him, the Head Girl actually made his job easier rather than harder. If he let himself stand back and look at his life in one big picture, he sometimes shook his head and wondered what his fifteen-year old self would say if he saw it, too.

"Draco!" Zabini's voice cracked slightly on the last syllable, and Draco focused on him. May as well let him get it over with so they could leave him in peace. He rolled his eyes again, this time in acquiescence, and took a sip from his goblet.

"When was the last time you got fucked?"

Drops of pumpkin juice dribbled down Draco's chin as he spluttered and coughed on Zabini's question. What!

"What kind of question is that, _Blaise_?" he demanded, forming a sneer of his own. The dark Slytherin smirked viciously.

"I knew it. You've become so pathetic in this little glorified Prefect act, even the whores won't touch you!"

He was pushing it now. Draco felt the anger rising in him, and resisted the urge to plant his right fist so far into Zabini's mouth he'll taste the Malfoy family crest for weeks. Or maybe the ring would embed itself in Zabini's palate, and he could talk right for a change. Draco wasn't even sure why he still wore the signet, so it only made sense.

"This really isn't any of your business, Zabini," he drawled, casually wiping the sticky trails of pumpkin juice from his chin.

"I think it is, my dear friend." Zabini scowled. Behind him Crabbe and Goyle's arm muscles twitched in anticipation, and Parkinson's gaze had shifted from Draco's face to his lap. He could almost hear her pitying his unused equipment, and the thought made his mood darken further. Zabini's voice dropped slightly as he continued.

"As your associates, we've got to clean up after your mess. First with that redemption bullshit, now this! They called you the Slytherin Sex God, you know that?" he scoffed.

Of course Draco knew that. But, as enthusiastic about sex as he was, he never enjoyed being called such a thing. He'd be lying if he said he believed himself to be an average lover, but he always enjoyed utilizing the element of surprise in his adventures. Whoever started the ridiculous title ruined that for him, and he allowed himself a healthy amount of hate for that person.

"You could have had anyone you wanted, before you fucked it up."

Suddenly, an idea blossomed in Draco's mind, floating just beyond the surface. But he didn't dwell on it, for it wasn't supposed to be his. He expertly widened his eyes and shaped his brow into a delicate mixture of outrage and hurt pride.

"And you think I can't now?" he demanded, pushing his unfinished breakfast across the table.

Zabini's eyes followed the plate for a moment, clearly surprised at the reaction, before settling back on the blond. Draco watched as his lips widened into a predatory smirk.

"No, I don't think you can. You've lost it," Zabini taunted transparently, and right on cue. Draco knew what he was thinking, and indulged him.

"You're wrong. I could fuck anyone I wanted," he announced unabashedly, earning a couple of curious looks from some fourth years a few feet away.

"Care to make a bet?" Those wonderful words floated from Zabini's stuck-up mouth, caressing the excitement that was brewing in Draco's chest. He did love a challenge, and the darker boy knew that all too well.

"Name your terms," Draco said, cracking his knuckles. He thought that might have been going a little overboard, but Zabini had a flair for the dramatic, and gobbled it all up greedily.

"I name the girl, and you have this weekend to seduce her. If you fail, I want you to make an announcement in the common room on Sunday night after dinner. I'll let you make the speech, but basically it will go something like this: I, Draco Malfoy, have no interest in sex until the school year is over, and no one is to try and change my mind, under pain of a well-placed itching hex."

It was typical of Zabini – unimaginative and excessive. But the challenge had been presented, and Draco set his prize in his sights.

"And if I win, I get your necklace," he stated matter-of-factly, eyeing the young basilisk fang that Zabini wore on a silver chain around his neck.

The dark Slytherin blinked at him for a few seconds, as though waiting for the rest. When it was clear Draco had exhausted his demand, he burst into raucous laughter. Crabbe and Goyle guffawed along, too, though Draco was pretty sure they had no idea what they were laughing at. Parkinson looked crestfallen, and he suspected she was still thinking about the itching hex.

"That's it?" Zabini was incredulous. "Sounds like you don't even expect to win!"

Draco remained motionless, but he couldn't prevent a small, knowing smile from distorting his lips. Zabini noticed, but seemed too invested in his confidence to remark on it. He chuckled irritatingly for a few seconds longer, before settling back into business mode.

"Now… we need a girl." He turned to his three comrades. "Draco here hasn't even bothered with his input, so we have free reign!"

"If I may make one request," Draco interrupted, "the girl should be from sixth or seventh year. Any younger and I risk being caught and punished accordingly – and then my 'glorified Prefect' image would be destroyed." He added quotation marks with his fingers for good measure.

Zabini looked thoughtful, before nodding. "Indeed, you would be attractive again, at least to our house. We can't have that sort of bias in our wager… Plus, any younger than sixth year and you risk the girl being too stupid and eager to please any older guy with an erection. Girls our age, however, have brains-"

Draco could have sworn he saw a light bulb appear above Zabini's head before he twisted around to whisper excitedly to his three cronies. Whatever he said was amusing enough to break Parkinson's face into a wide grin, and she started giggling conspiratorially. Draco saw it coming like a freight train.

"Let's see," Zabini lifted up one ring-laden hand and counted off on his fingers, "impossibly smart, unattractive, stubborn as a mule, thinks fun should be punishable by detention, and… what was the last thing, Pansy dearest?"

Parkinson's arms snaked around Zabini's narrow waist as she propped her chin on his shoulder, grinning stupidly.

"Mudblood!" she squealed, her eyes glinting dangerously.

Draco fought to keep his expression neutral. He raised his eyebrows as if to say 'is that it?' and stood to his feet. His calm demeanor confused Zabini slightly, and he frowned up at the blonde Slytherin.

"Are we agreed?" he commanded, his dark eyes blazing. Draco said nothing, but allowed a smirk to slip out before he extended his long, pale hand to grasp Zabini's firmly. They shook once, and Draco took that as his cue to stride confidently from the Great Hall.

A few moments of silence followed, which Pansy was the first to break.

"Does he think he can actually do it?" she asked, sounding frightened.

Zabini's face was stormy as he watched Draco's blonde head disappear around the corner.

"If he thinks he can seduce Hermione Granger, he's completely off his rocker."

That same evening happened to be scheduled for the fortnightly Prefect meeting, and Draco smiled to himself as he crawled through the portrait into the Heads' quarters.

_Zabini should have done more research, _he thought smugly, drinking in the half-empty common room. The walls were a deep red color, and broken in several places by ornate windows draped in heavy bottle-green curtains. The rug, plush couch and squashy armchairs were a similar color to the drapes, with rich gold piping. The mantle above the fireplace was decorated with tarnished silver ornaments, all of which were fairly nondescript, save the main feature: a cobra striking at a rearing lion, whose jaws were open in a silent roar. He thought the workmanship was impressive, but the intent was too obvious. Ancient tapestries spattered two walls, leaving one spare for a bookcase that spanned the entire area from floor to ceiling, and the other free to accommodate a split staircase that led to two separate doors – their bedrooms. His door was polished black and hers was rustic oak, with a gold handle.

The content chattering that greeted him as he stepped through the portrait hole ceased almost as soon as he stood to his full height, and his eyes scanned the room, noting the wary stares that two of the three residing Prefects were giving him. Sometimes their obvious trepidation irked him, but other times he felt the alternatives would be even less comfortable. He would never be a friend to them, so their silent, almost warning, stares seemed to be the best option.

Draco dropped into the closest armchair to the door and made himself snug while he waited for everyone else to show up. At first he had wondered why the meetings were scheduled for Fridays, and he still remembered voicing his concern at the first meeting of the school year. He recalled the blank, cold stares he received, as Hermione pointed out that Saturday night is more than enough for socializing with people you see every day, and that weeknights don't allow for late meetings if the need arises. He stopped asking questions after that.

Instead he listened, offering the occasional input when one of them got snarky or tried to dispute something Hermione was putting forth. In the beginning he approached all of her points with cynicism, naturally, but he couldn't fault her on anything. So he figured he would stick to his role and keep them all in their place, and just agree with her on post-curfew patrol schedules and monitoring of out-of-bounds areas and such. Besides, she was far too eager to do all the work herself, and he was content to let her.

Eventually all eight Prefects arrived, followed closely by Hermione. She looked flustered, and he wasn't sure if that helped his cause or not. He used tonight's meeting as an opportunity to plan his moves, and when the hour had finally passed, he waited patiently for the Prefects to file out. One of them got lost on the way out, and stopped to talk to Hermione. After watching their heads huddled together for two minutes, he lost his patience.

"Brown! Don't you have red-haired infants to conceive?" he drawled, trying to look bored. She spun around to face him, her cheeks pink.

"Well, excuse me, Malfoy. I'm so sorry to invade your space like this." She scowled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She turned back to Hermione and gave the girl a quick hug.

"'Night 'Mione. I'll see you tomorrow, all right?" And finally she was gone, in a flurry of golden hair. Draco breathed a sigh of relief.

Hermione simply rolled her eyes at him, before heading toward her staircase. Knowing an opportunity when he saw one, he jumped up from his seat, straightening his robes as he strode purposefully in her direction.

"Wait, Granger."

The next morning found Draco sitting in the same spot in the Great Hall, watching the same cloud hovering over his head. Something was different about it, he was sure. Was it whiter? Fluffier?

He heard a cacophony of footsteps coming up behind him, and he fought back a smirk as they halted suddenly. Then came whispers, a symphony of incredulity and amusement, and then the thud of bodies hitting the bench on his right side. Once again, he tore his gaze from the rogue cloud and met Zabini's stare. The expression he found was questioning, and then confident.

"You're up early," Zabini remarked with a taunting smile. "I take it your seduction of Granger went well?" He turned to the others and laughed openly, fingering the pearly tooth that rolled about against his quivering breastbone.

Draco let the smirk escape. "It did, actually," he remarked just as casually as Zabini had. He then greatly enjoyed watching as Crabbe and Goyle frowned in confusion, Parkinson's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, and Zabini chuckled.

"I had a feeling you would say that," he said in a self-satisfied tone. "So I took the liberty of breaking into Snape's store room."

He dropped his hand into his pocket and retrieved a small phial of clear liquid. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Veritaserum? Really?" He scoffed. Zabini held the phial under the table as he pulled the stopper out with a small _pop_ and reached for Draco's goblet.

"As if I would trust you to tell the truth," he stated carelessly, before tipped half the phial's contents into Draco's pumpkin juice. The blond wondered why Zabini seemed so surprised that he didn't associate with them as much as he used to.

But his disdain for the dark Slytherin was only going to make this victory sweeter, so he lifted the goblet in a mock salute, before swallowing the contents in three gulps.

Zabini paused for three seconds, before leaning forward intently. "Now tell me, did you have sex with Hermione Granger?"

Draco let them wait in suspense for a few moments, before he grinned widely.

"Yes, I did."

The reaction was an explosion of sorts, with two deep, ineloquent voices asking each other what happened to Draco, a shrill, almost hysteric female voice demanding to know what the hell was wrong with him, and the notable absence of a deeper voice, as its owner stared at Draco in what could only be described as outraged disbelief.

"How did you trick it?" he demanded, his cheeks the darkest Draco had ever seen. The taller Slytherin paused, his brows furrowed in confusion. Trick what?

Zabini got tired of waiting for an answer. "The Veritaserum! How did you trick it?" his voice was starting to sound more shrill and hysterical than Parkinson's, and Draco decided he was bored of this. He stood, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth.

"I find it amusing that you put more faith in my, admittedly limited, powers of Occlumency than my powers of seduction. After all, I am the Slytherin Sex God."

He grabbed the chain from Zabini's neck and pulled, hearing tiny chimes as several broken links hit the stone floor. Grasping his prize firmly in one hand, he left the Great Hall, followed once again by a pair of blazing black eyes.

The sunlight that filtered through the windows of the Heads' common room was bright and chirpy, and Draco skipped a little as he headed for the split staircase. He'd wiped that smirk right off Zabini's face, and he was almost certain he still wouldn't have to worry about people harping on about him leaving the post of Slytherin Sex God behind for a more academic pursuit. For Zabini to tell people in his house that Draco had sex with Hermione Granger would be to tell them that he encouraged it. Draco would look like one determined, ballsy bloke, and Zabini would look like the loser. Which he was. Either way, Draco won.

Silver brushed against gold as he placed one hand on the door handle, and knocked with the other. After two or three beats, he opened the door and was at the large mahogany four-poster in three steps.

His eyes roamed over the lush burgundy quilt, and he stopped before launching himself onto the mattress. The figure in the centre of the bed was dwarfed by the sheer size of the bed, with her small legs tucked up against her stomach, but the mop of bushy brown curls held its own easily against the ornate cushions and throw pillows. He grinned, feeling giddy in his excitement. Her hair really was ridiculous.

After watching her sleep for a few more moments, Draco decided he'd waited long enough and, without further ceremony, threw himself onto the bed beside her. He kicked off his shoes and burrowed feet-first under the heavy covers, and molded himself against the warmth of her back. His nose poked through the hair at the nape of her neck, and his moist breath soon woke her from her dreaming.

"Morning," she mumbled groggily, pressing herself further into his chest. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Our victory," he smirked into the skin of her neck, the brush of his lips making her shiver. He reached his arm over her and dangled the tooth before her bleary eyes.

"Isn't that Zabini's?" she asked, small fingers emerging from under the covers to touch the tooth curiously. Draco murmured his agreement, and continued exploring her neck with his mouth.

"I hope you won it in a battle to the death," she said wryly, making him chuckle. Such remarks were commonplace in his house, but they sounded particularly meaningful coming from her mouth.

Her mouth…

Suddenly unhappy with this arrangement, Draco's arms encircled Hermione's waist and he flipped her onto her back with little effort. She had a pillow imprint on her cheek and there was sleep dust in the corners of her eyes, and Draco could have looked at her for the rest of the morning. Zabini's words the previous day scratched at the back of his mind.

_Impossibly smart, unattractive, stubborn as a mule, thinks fun should be punishable by detention…_

Impossibly smart? Yes, she was. Unattractive? Definitely not.

From their third year, when she had near punched his lights out, he knew she was beautiful. It waged a constant war inside him, and he told himself that it was just because she was a filthy disgrace to wizardkind, and sometimes people are simply fascinated by the dregs of society. But during his sixth year, during the battles that raged between his past and the future he so desperately wanted, her face was never far from his thoughts. She was no astounding beauty, no. Compared to some girls at Hogwarts she appeared plain and ordinary.

But it was the light that glinted gold in her caramel curls, and the softness of her skin, and the tender, yielding flesh of her body, the swell of her full lips, the endless depths of her golden-brown eyes, and the fire that he loved to watch stirring within them… these things made her stand out from the rest. It bothered Draco that he spent his earlier years antagonizing her, and trying to stir the fire the only way he knew how - with anger and pain. It bothered him that, despite his social standing and wealth, he would never feel good enough for her. But that was his cross that he had to bear, and he would do so until that fire that burned for him, previously in anger and presently in desire, died from her eyes.

Silver glinted from the nest of curls surrounding her head, and Draco untangled the necklace from them. He ran the tooth from her cheekbone, down the line of her jaw, and around to her lips, where he traced their shape. Heat rose in his veins, and he felt desire pulsing low in his belly. He could crush her, she was so fragile (and they both knew he had tried many times), so soft under the weight of his body, and her doe-like eyes retained a purity that was untouchable by his hand, no matter how many times they had sex. Fucked. Made love.

But still she looked at him with trust in her eyes, and her slender arms wound around his back to hold him close. He sunk down onto his elbows, with his hands fisted in her ridiculous curls, and he let his hips rest on her, feeling her struggle not to rotate hers against his growing need.

Yes, he'd had sex with Hermione Granger the previous night. And the night before that. And many nights previous. He had sex with her many more times than any pureblooded Slytherin who fell into his lap. Their first time was driven by lust, as all of his conquests were, and his memories of it were tinged green and grey and heavily shadowed. It always happened in her bedroom, and he always returned to his afterward.

Then one night, he'd stayed. And he'd woken up bathed in sunlight and burgundy, and his memories changed from there. They were lit by fire, pulsing with heat and shaded in red and gold, from the pale cream of her throat, to her kiss-swollen lips, to the light that reflected gold in her hair. He felt he was drowning in her goodness and her purity and her trust. In her fire.

He'd remembered why he always went to his room. And by the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. Her arms were around him, pulling him close, telling him that she wanted him there, and that he wanted to be there.

She pulled him back into the present moment by drawing patterns on his skin through the thin silk of his shirt. The space between the top halves of their bodies was suddenly too much, and Draco let his mouth fall against hers as the rest of his torso followed suit. He covered every inch of her, from her hair to her toes, and he held her head in his hands as he kissed her, and he ground his hips into hers as their desire grew hotter.

Soon, it wouldn't be enough. He would sink into the depths of her, his tongue diving into her mouth, desperate to claim every inch of her that he could. He would become surrounded by her heat – her fire – and even as he claimed her, from the depths of her, to every inch of the skin that encased her, even as he marked her as _his _and no one else's, he knew that she was possessing him. He knew that he was lost to her – maybe forever, or maybe for as long as she wanted him.

It didn't matter. Even when thoughts of wagers and games and challenges infiltrated his mind, she would turn those bottomless eyes on him and kiss him, tentative and chaste, and maybe he was content with losing. Just this once.


End file.
